


summer dissolves in my mouth

by crownedcarl



Series: fleeting and fixed [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Statutory Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 21:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl
Summary: She wants to keep him a secret, but it takes Archie a long time to understand that that’s not a good thing or a sweet sentiment.





	summer dissolves in my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know or care about the canon timeline; i had feelings and a need to crank this out asap, so here it is, my take on what sexual abuse and the subsequent trauma the show wouldn't give us would really look like in a minor that was taken advantage of. i haven't watched riverdale in literal ages, but i love archie and He Deserved Better
> 
> title from erasure by zoë lianne

Archie Andrews is fifteen years old when he finally steps outside of the mold.

Fifteen and sun-kissed, miss Grundy finds him on the side of the road and looks at him with a hunger that makes Archie ache; it’s his first taste of something dangerous. It isn’t his last.

He’s fifteen years old when he comes to the realization that there’s something inside of him that makes people want to hurt him, his chest heaving beneath Grundy’s exploring hands, but that’s a half-truth at best. The other half is this: something inside Archie yearns to be hurt.

-

Years ago, before he had to grow up, Archie remembers FP coming home drunk, Jughead masterfully dodging the arm FP tried to throw around his shoulders, but Archie’s own reflexes weren’t as fast. He remembers being caught in a strong grip, his heart pounding, fetid breath against his ear and Jughead slouched uncomfortably in the doorway, FP’s dry lips landing on the curve of Archie’s jaw. “Be a good boy, Archie,” FP had mumbled, fingers tightening on the back of Archie’s neck, “You be a good boy, you hear me?” and Archie remembers swallowing through the lump in his throat, mumbling back a strangled sure, of course before making his way back to Jughead and out the door.

He remembers FP lingering in the shadow of the doorway, looking. He still can’t make sense of that.

-

His dad thinks Archie is still twelve; still a little boy that needs guidance and a helping hand, but he doesn’t. Archie knows he’s too grown to ask his dad about everything and he knows better than to burden already heavy shoulders with the embarrassing questions he’s left with after Grundy. Sometimes, he wishes they never met, but other times Archie lies awake and wonders if anything will ever feel as good as she did, trying to block out the frenzied, runaway tangent his brain is stuck on.

Maybe she wasn’t good for him, but deep down Archie suspects he wasn’t good enough for her, after all. It makes him want to sleep for a day or two, just to get out of his own head for once.

-

Veronica is sweet, but Archie doesn’t know what to do with her. The first time he gets his hands beneath her shirt she laughs, appreciative and impressed, kissing his mouth sweetly. “So you _have_ done this before,” Veronica sighs and Archie bites back his instinctive first response, because this isn’t the time to think about Grundy and the way she used to look in the sunlight with Archie between her knees.

“I’ve had practice,” he mumbles instead, but Archie is used to women - a woman, rather, instead of girls like Veronica. Her skin is smooth, her perfume sharp, but she’s only growing into her body and Archie briefly panics at the realization that he’s going to have to learn and relearn how to please her, wondering what she’ll say once Archie gets it wrong.

She might not purse her lips like Grundy used to, or pull his hair to reprimand, but Veronica has a sharp-toothed smile and Archie closes his eyes, counting down the minutes.

-

He’s chewing his thumbnail during breakfast when his dad clears his throat and turns around, coffee sloshing in his cup. Archie glances up, petting the soft fur behind Vegas’ ear, wondering what he’s in trouble for this time.

“Son,” his dad starts, fixing Archie with an unwavering stare, “I think we need to talk.”

Archie shrugs, jaw tensing. “Talk about what?” he asks, taking another bite of his toast, chewing slowly. His heart is racing and nothing has even happened.

Across the counter, his dad shakes his head, shoulders slumped. Archie feels a stab of guilt for doing this, whatever this is, because causing his dad stress is one of the last things Archie wants to do, but he still manages to do it. “I need to get to school,” Archie says, the words rushed and tight, wanting out of this house, this situation.

“Archie,” his dad says, “I’m worried about you. That’s all. Would you just-”

Archie stands very still without knowing why. Moving is impossible.

“Damn it,” his dad snaps and Archie closes his eyes and prepares for the worst, ducking his head, but a moment passes without anything happening. Once he takes the plunge and looks back up, his dad is staring at Archie like he’s breaking his heart.

He can’t think of any other time he’s seen that look. Not since long after mom left and Archie had finally asked why.

“Kiddo,” his dad whispers, all strangled and hoarse, as if it pains him. “You don’t have to do that, not ever. I wasn’t going to _hit_ you.”

The worst part of that statement is that Archie knows, he does; he’s never needed to be scared of his dad or cautious around him, but something has changed and Archie stands there with his fists clenched and his chest tight and bites out “I _know_ that,” before slinging his bag onto his shoulder and hurrying towards the door, wanting out, wanting to be anywhere but there.

-

Archie knows he’s not special where it matters.

Jughead is smart, Betty is brave, Veronica is fierce and Archie is Archie. Just Archie.

Before summer, girls weren’t really looking at him the way Archie was awkwardly looking at them, but at the start of term there are glances his way, little giggles between class, snide comments from the guys in the locker rooms, but none of it feels the way he expected it to. It should make him happy, knowing he’s being noticed, but Archie doesn’t want the attention.

In the music room, Grundy kisses him under the dim lights, with Archie backed up against a shelf, one hand shyly tracing her back. She wants to keep him a secret, but it takes Archie a long time to understand that that’s not a good thing or a sweet sentiment.

Months after that, someone utters the phrase _statutory rape_ and Archie shuts down.

-

"I love you," Grundy says, "Of course I do," but she only says it once Archie asks, something in her eyes going steely, like she's bracing for an attack. Archie doesn't understand it at all, but he trusts her, pressing a kiss to the spot beneath her collarbone. "Couldn't love anyone else this way, you know that," and for all that Archie wanted to know, something doesn't sound right about her voice, like she's humoring him. Maybe he's got this all wrong; maybe Grundy loves the chase more than the actual having, and Archie pushes into the hand in his hair, moaning, wondering if he's just this week's meal to sate her.

-

His dad has been tip-toeing around Archie for days. Always looking but never quite speaking, eyebrows drawn together and hands shoved deeply into his pockets, hovering around Archie like he doesn’t know how to speak to him anymore, like there’s something so deeply wrong with Archie that he can’t bear to approach him.

It’s easier, now, to navigate school without breaking into a cold sweat outside of the music room, but things at home still feel off. He cracks under the pressure, eventually.

“Could you just,” Archie bites out, staring down at his homework, all of it blurring together once Archie can’t blink back his tears of frustration anymore, “Could you just stop? I’m fine.”

His jaw is clenched so tight it hurts. “Archie,” his dad says, plaintive, “I just want you to be alright.”

“Nothing is alright,” Archie says, a different kind of misery rising up in his stomach, the kind that makes him tremble. “It’s not - it’s never alright, not ever. You can’t look at me.”

He’s laughing, putting his head into his tired arms, shoulders shaking. “She made me feel, and she used me, and she left, and now you’re looking at me like I’m...like I’m-”

Crazy, he thinks. “I’m looking at you,” his dad says, soft and tired, “Like you’re my son, and like I love you, and like I would do anything to fix this.”

Not now, Archie thinks, begging his body for this one concession. Not now, he repeats, but the tears are building and escaping down his cheeks, small, muffled noises becoming wretched sobs that he can’t hide. There’s no escaping this shame.

“Kid, god, Archie,” his dad whispers, gathering Archie up in his arms like he’s a little kid again, holding him close, letting Archie cry into the curve of his shoulder, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Me, too, Archie wants to say, but he can’t make the words come out, except his dad shushes him anyway and cups the back of his head, tender and careful, and Archie lets himself be taken care of.

-

There are a lot of things that Archie needs to come to terms with.

Not yet, he tells his dad, shaking his head adamantly at the tentative suggestion of therapy, or maybe just a few days off. Not yet, he repeats, getting into bed and letting his dad tuck him in with careful hands, lingering beside the bed before leaning down, smoothing down Archie’s fringe, pressing a kiss to his forehead, still warm from crying. Archie burrows into the blanket, eyes closed, his knees drawn up to his chest.

“Dad?”

He can hear his dad inhale sharply, hearing the floorboards creak as he turns around. “Yeah?”

“Are you...are you disappointed?”

There’s a noise, like someone about to cry and never stop, but when Archie glances over his shoulder, his dad is gripping the door frame in both hands and sighing.

“In you, kiddo? Never.”

-

“Hey,” Betty asks, the day after, the two of them about to head in opposite directions for class, her smile soft and curious. “Are you alright?”

The automatic _I’m fin_ e that Archie is used to never comes. He shrugs, still feeling heavy, and reminds himself that there’s a world of difference between fine and alright, chewing his lower lip in consideration. This isn’t the time, he knows, but he manages a smile back and says “I am,” with a conviction he’s going to need to relearn, but it doesn’t feel like an outright lie, at least, which he considers a victory. “I really am.”

He will be, eventually. At this point, sixteen years old and shattered several times over, Archie thinks that maybe it can be, some day, if he just remembers how to breathe and keep moving forward.

“Good,” Betty says, “You deserve it, you know,” and Archie closes his eyes, inhaling, deciding to believe her.


End file.
